Dark Eyes
by Doctor Fourteen
Summary: When Berthold Hawkeye is suddenly killed as the remaining member of an organisation, researching the vampire progenitor is killed, Riza joins his apprentice and flame alchemist, Roy Mustang to avenge the killing of her father and to put a stop to the reigning destruction of Amestris. Only it's difficult fighting dark creatures that politicians and leaders will not acknowledge as ex
1. Mercy Killings

Mustang's precise, well rehearsed citing of ancient words from the bible clasped in his left hand are interrupted so suddenly that the book falls from his hand, toppling to the floor while his right hand instinctively tightens into a white-knuckled death grip around the crucifix embellished with silver. He stoops backwards instinctively as a blade slices through mid-air with practiced efficiency barely avoiding its path as the head falls from the shoulders of the creature stood before him.

The head does not reach the ground, nor when its knees give way does it fall.

Instead it seems to fall apart, as though something so cruel and evil could have only been made from a bag of sand.

"You could've killed me, Hawkeye!" He is quick to complain as she lands carefully at the knees, the blade rested to the ground as her body takes a more natural position once again.

"I doubt that, if you _had_ been about to die, I'd expect it to be from wounds inflicted as that vampire savaged you." He takes her by the hand, pulling to back onto her feet as she finds her place at his side, staring down to observe the remnants of a battle that had left their faces powdered with dirt and sweat coating flesh.

"He was a young, when he was turned. The missing person's report states that he was approaching his 17th birthday. I'd wager that he didn't even get that far." His face hadn't appeared young, not in the least. It had been deathly pale, with a rage painted onto his expression that aged him by almost half a century.

This was a mercy killing, Riza observed. The human he had been had been replaced on September 21st of a year ago.

Roy took steps towards an oak tree, finding his way to the ground again, the mud was wet and the cold of the earth seeped through him. The shiver at his spine did not cause him to hesitate as he slipped his coat from his shoulders, wrapping it around the young woman leaning, crumpled, against the tree. He took her in his arms carefully as she shivered, a hand loosened the makeshift tourniquet at her neck, formed from Riza's own sleeve, replacing it with a well placed hand – holding a wound that he knew he could not stop. A wound she would not survive.

Gooseflesh covered Riza's arm, where the sleeve was gone and blood seeped from a small gash as she panted softly, running her hand along it, hoping for some warm from the friction of skin on skin. The adrenaline began to subside as the sheer cold of the frigid night air hit her, breath misting before her.

"Purebloods will turn humans and those humans will turn humans until an entire army has been created that satisfies the needs of the progenitor – the further away they stray from pureblood by generation, the more deranged they become. The lowest tier are almost mindless creatures, they don't know of any other purpose than to kill, they do not turn their prey, instead they savage them."

Riza could sense the regret in his words, so quiet, but laced with a bitter anger at the perceived failure of another life lost. She was on her knees now, at his side – always by his side. That was her promise, a promise he had not asked of her but one she had given him nonetheless. She took the woman's hand, wrapping her fingers around it, her eyes drawn to the bloodied fingertips, some with nails missing – the woman had struggled, she had fought for her life with passion, a shudder travelled down Riza's spine as she considered what life the woman could've had in a life she was so desperately to cling on to.

She had long blonde hair, turned brown by the blood the oxidised in the tangled mess. Roy had not seen her eyes, nor had he wanted to. It frightened him just how similar the girl dying in his arms looked to that of Riza when they had first embarked on their journey together.

"I think she's ready, Roy. I think you need to let her go now. I don't know if there can be peace for her now – we stopped the creature that did this to her, but we cannot undo what he did…" A tense pause, marred by the sound of Riza's harsh breathing as she stumbled through words, trying to find the right ones. "But if you leave her, she survives and soon enough she'll turn."

"This isn't the life planned for you, Riza." Roy spoke suddenly, the words tumbling from him, a stark confession that took her by surprise, eyes widening, feeling every beat of her heart in every extremity of her body. "I was your father's apprentice, this was never supposed to be your job."

"It wasn't something you asked of me, I planned my own path."

"–– When your father was killed, I wanted to protect you and to keep you away from this world. But you're too smart, too stubborn and too caring." Roy held the woman closer, it was suddenly dragged to the front of his consciousness that he was cradling her in his arms, rocking her back and forth as though these last moments of comfort could provide any retribution for what he was about to do. "I agree, I think she's ready."

Riza's hand shuffled through her bag, a piercing shriek echoing from the mouth of the girl, the venom of the bite working its way through what remained of the blood in her body, an agonising process of blood turning to acid, blistering the veins and arteries and internal organs, as though her body scorched her from within, almost as though her body shifted from human to immortal stone.

She produced a stake, Roy taking it from her, his hand slick and filthy now with her blood, it ran to his wrist, to his forearm and dripping away at the elbow onto what had once been a grassy forest, now turned to mud as mulch from dying leaves falling from trees. She didn't hesitate, her hand didn't shift or falter his touched hers, taking the wooden stake from her.

"She's ready, Roy." She reminded him, sensing the pain of his hesitation, the resentment and hurt all rushing through his mind, mixed together to form one great emotion that left bile at his throat, a nausea in the pit of his stomach and a sharp pain at the small of his back.

Just as soon as the stake entered her flesh, pierced her heart, it was over and the silence was deafening as once again as though sand contained in a bag, the dust fell to the ground, leaving an unrecognisable trace behind of the events that had preceded this moment.

In the morning, Roy knew, the patrol of villagers would resume to search for the missing only child of the mayor, a young woman with a fierce intellect to match a sharp tongue, someone who if he had heard of her before this first encounter, he would have tipped her for someone to oppose many politicians who offered meagre solutions to problems that they could never understand. And Roy knew that they would never find what they were looking for, that in his arms she had passed away, in a fit of screams that he would insist for a lifetime no longer haunted him, but that in the dark peace of night when his companion slept away, he would hear them again. They were a chorus of death at his own hands.

The dust trickled to the ground as he stood, wiping his hands at his buttoned shirt, leaving behind a stain that he would sooner be rid of. Just as soon as he stood, Riza was already gone, collecting the bible and blade from the ground, concealing them in the bag once again, tossing its strap over her shoulder. He lifted his coat from the ground, throwing it over his forearm, eyes scanning for anything left behind at the scene – those who he considered blessed to not know of the secret existence of vampires must be shielded, allowed to keep their innocence before it could be tainted with the horrors that they knew.

They're both more exhausted than they dare admit, the ride in his car is near enough silent for the most part, he will occasionally open his mouth to speak, but words fall short and instead he lets out a noticeable sigh. Riza is worn down, she's cold, injured and her stomach aches with hunger as the adrenaline subsides, leaving them in a near enough catatonic state.

Just as soon as they return home, she takes the blood soaked coat from him, waits for him to shirk away his shirt. They have a routine now, not that either of them would like to admit that the events of the night follow a regular pattern – but this has become their lives now, both are distinctly aware that they are on a designated path to Hell, but it's too late to change that now. A decision was made, perhaps long before they even became aware that it had, when her father's research into the biological properties and historical knowledge of the vampire progeny had caused his untimely death.

Roy had been her father's apprentice of 8 years, learning his trade as he worked his way through a rigorous training process as Riza had idly watched over, the knowledge of a secretive form of sorcery, developed centuries earlier to combat the inhuman beings known as flame alchemy, bestowed on him. Her mother was gone, a common trait she shared with Roy. From time to time she would dip her attentions into her father's work, but at the very beginning from such a young age they seemed no more than fairy stories. Riza had been raised by her mother into a world of philosophy and understanding, but she had shied away from her father's work. It was only when the Spanish Influenza had taken her from them, that she had been thrust into a colder and darker world than she could imagine. At 8 years, a 12 year old Roy had joined her father as an apprentice, she had unwittingly become one of the few to learn the true story of how Roy had entered the Hawkeye family – that he had been hurried away from his family home before he had time to clasp his eyes on them, that they had been changed from their humanly forms and in turn, killed by an accomplice of the organisation which her father had worked in.

 _Riza had wondered why Roy never resented her father._

Years passed and slowly of the original twelve members of the organisation, only one remained. Her father's practices became more rigorous and perhaps now in hindsight she could recognise that his workings were those of a man who knew he was running out of time.

On a bleak winter solstice evening at 15 years old, he had carved the secrets of his studies into the flesh of her back. That night, she had been carried to her bed, laid on her front as her father delicately rubbed a salve into what remained of her stinging, intact flesh. He had given her a cup of a bitter medicine, one supposed to help her sleep and left her in the dark, with her cheek on her forearm as she rested and tears stained her pillow. He had been a fool to imagine that his medicine could ease such pain, every nerve of her back, ignited and searing through each and every one of her senses as though some horrific creature rested in the pit of her belly, desperately clawing its way out.

 _Riza had wondered why she never resented her father._

Roy had carried her from her bed, weakened by pain, a film of sweat at her brow. He had hurried, taking her from her home. He had spoken to her, calm and quiet words that would not let on the true depth and danger of the situation.

It was only when she returned to her home, scorched to the earth, a matter of weeks later that she could truly believe Roy's words. That a horrific crime had occurred as she had slept soundly, that the organisation had fallen and that now, like Roy, both of her parents were gone.

A fire is lit in the small home they have come to know as home, the smell of burning filling the room as she tosses his shirt and coat into the flames.

"It wasn't your fault." She notes, breaking the silence, drawing his line of sight from the fire to her own gaze. "He had killed began to change her before we had even arrived. We couldn't have stopped it, we didn't have the foresight or intelligence to know."

"It's been 10 years, Hawkeye, hasn't it? Every time we come across a lead, it disappears before our eyes. This leader, their King is too strong for us. Even with military resources, we're late to arrive."

"Are you suggesting we give in?"

"Not for a moment, we've come too far."

"You're coming to your senses, I was beginning to wonder if I'd have to shoot you for such a foolish mentality… but, you're correct. We've come so far, but the leads are growing weaker and we're closer to being discovered. Amestris isn't ready to learn about the existence of vampires – and that's if they choose to listen what evidence we can present to them."

"If we give in now, we may as well have perished with your father."

"You're tired, Roy. You need to rest."

He opens his mouth to speak, to object in some way, but that knowing expression is right and he succumbs to her as she takes his forearm in her beaten and cut fingers, leading him to the basin of the bathroom, filling it with water as she dips his hands in, taking control for him as he wills his senses – the shriek of the girl – to leave him.

Her hands drip water over his skin, her fingertips massage away the blood until the dirt is absent and his hands look as though they have not just committed some unspeakable atrocity. She moves his arms slightly, encouraging him to lift them so she can replace his shirt with one clean – warm. She still senses the chill of the cold in his core.

There her work ends and his contribution begins, she takes a small box of bandages and pins, placing it on the dining table as he stirs a pot of broth. Ordinarily taking the time to carefully season it to perfect taste, instead today as soon as it bubbles, it is ladled into dishes and presented on the table. By the time he sits, she still isn't done, fiddling away at the wound on her upper arm, the awkward position troubling her as she wraps bandage around it – it will heal, it always does. She has seen worse, been through worse.

It isn't until he places his hand over hers that she even notices the slight trembling of her hand, she sinks into the uncomfortably upright position of the dining chair as he takes over for her, wrapping the bandaging around so neatly that if either of them were in better senses, she can imagine some quip about his embroidery skills being made.

But for the time being it is enough as he stands over her, the hand moving into her hair to pull her forehead closer to him so that he can rest his head on top of hers, perhaps overly conscious of not troubling her injured arm.

"I worry that one day, you will not make it out alive and that I'll be left in this word alone, Hawkeye."

"Never."


	2. Flames Can Be Cruel

"Did you even stir this thing, Hawkeye?" Roy asks, incredulously, he would lean in to peer further into the pot of mush, but the stench of burned vegetables fills his nostrils, so instead he retreats.

"Of course I did. More frequently once it started bubbling."

"Bubbling—? It needed simmering, Riza. A gentle boil at most, not a furious death by cooking."

"It isn't easy to recognise boiling from simmering, Roy." She retorts matter of factly with almost a tone of snark in her voice, he sighs deeply, exasperated.

"Then it's a good job there's some leftover meats and bread in the pantry." He concludes, a tone of defeat in his voice.

"I think it'd be best if you prepared it. I'll stoke the fire and set the table, then you can tell me what you were so intensely focused on to neglect your observation of my cooking."

There's that charming smile of hers, one that resolves all of his problems in one fell swoop. He wonders if she ever knows that she's doing that — whether she sees the change in his own expression whenever she smiles. When Riza Hawkeye smiles, the world is put to rights. Even if only for a split second, Roy senses a balance, a sense of peace and belonging. Cooking had never particularly been a talent of hers, not for want of trying… the contents of a pan always had its way of besting her, a silent agreement had been made that she would defer responsibility for the saucepan to him, instead making better use of her time staring down the papers scattered across his desk, maps, newspaper clippings and small handwritten notes blotted with ink of a pen thrown down against the surface in frustration. Her finger brushes over the paper, tracing a line along a map which seemingly leads to nowhere.

It's late, far later than they both realise. Time always seems to get away from them and there just aren't enough hours in the day. Vampires have lurked in the darkness for centuries, but as the fold of the organisation had disintegrated, the result of murder after murder, they had been left with a dark secret, one that would consume them just as it had done with everyone who had come before them, to hunt vampires was a dangerous business and a task only those with little else to lose would take upon themselves.

There had never been a plan, through circumstance they had been thrust into a dark world where they would stare down horrors and come through each and every one, just one piece further away from who they had once been. A free hand moves itself to the nape of her neck, kneading an ache that appears without mercy, but it stops as soon as a fingertip touches the raised surface of the tattoo, feeling at the inking as it sends a brutal shiver down her spine, for a moment she is suspended in space.

"Don't go down that road," his voice breaks the silence, taking her hand away from the tattoo, interrupting her train of thought before she descends any further into thoughts, before she remembers her father, before the guilt of her father's workings weigh too heavily down on her soul. His hand holds hers for a moment, fingers clasped around hers, his thumb presses reassuringly against the palm of her hand, until she sighs and her sharp stance softens lightly, her shoulders sagging. The burned pan is a distant memory now as she inhales and exhales softly in his presence.

"Thank you," she breathes, he releases her hand to run it through his hair, it's dishevelled now, she sees that he's been fidgeting with it as he works, in the late hour of darkness where everything is dimly lit and not even the moon sees fit to creep through the clouds, she sees him at his most vulnerable state, where he presents himself to no one but her, where she sees that expression haggard with worry and concern, lines under eyes that deepen for every passing hour that he resists rest while he chases a trail seemingly leading to nowhere — but a girl has died and for that he is responsible, for that he blame lies with him and even though she will argue with him again that he is not to blame, he will carry the burden on his shoulders.

"I've been thinking," he begins, leaning around her to place his hand on the paper, she stoops slightly, looking down to the lines he traces along the map. They don't lead anywhere, they are just marked points with lines that lead nowhere, they begin as soon as they end, where trails are lost. The pen is collected from its place on the desk as he draws another collection of lines, he turns over a leaf of paper, replicating the lines, searching for a pattern, perhaps a regular distance, a timing, a vicinity, "thinking about the girl," he finally adds as he places the pen down once more with a defeated groan.

"What about her?" She asks, remaining in her place, studying his scribbles, allowing him to run with his thoughts.

"She was young, one of the youngest we have seen yet — unmarried, as they often are. But this time the pattern changed, most often they are alone in the world, some live as prostitutes in the darker streets of the city, some work relentlessly for a pittance, ultimately dying in poverty, they are in the places that should someone disappear from there, no one would ever notice. She wasn't though, the tracks have changed and the motive is unclear, she is the daughter, the only child, of a prominent man. They mourn her death, mourn the loss of her father."

She takes the pen from him, drawing a circle around where the girl had met her untimely death. "I don't think she was supposed to be there, I don't think she was the target — we've been looking at this wrong, it wasn't her that should've been our focus, it was him. She loved him, or he loved her. Perhaps it was even mutual."

"She went looking for him, he went missing — she searched for him."

"And perhaps he even searched for her, he did his duty to the progenitor, he fought in the battle he was created for and as he descended to madness, he couldn't escape the notion that he was looking for her."

"He wouldn't have known who she was, by the time he found her. It was too late for him and he was already something far worse than dead. But she didn't know that —"

"And she found him," she concluded. "She didn't know what he had become, why he had gone missing. My guess is the forest, they met there before, perhaps many times. She fell in love with him, he fell in love with her, he had no title, no money, her father would never have accepted him to his daughter."

"He didn't know why he wanted to go to that place, he followed animalistic instinct and killed her. He tore her throat and she bled to death in my arms… because they loved each other." He felt his stomach churn at the utterance of the words, a meaningless death as the result of human affection gone awry, twisted by the foul creature without a face that he chased, the progenitor.

"He's our focus, he's our lead. We have to retrace his steps to lead us back to the progenitor, to find who is changing humans for some purpose."

He rubs the tiredness from his eyes as he pulls the lapels of his coat tighter against himself, trying to fend off the brutal icy wind of the early hours of the morning, his boots trudge through muddy land, calves beginning the sting in protest against the strain of pulling feet away from the sodden earth that envelops them, caking them in mud and dirt. She follows behind, gun drawn and ready to fire at a moment's notice, she cannot deny the eerie chill that trails down her spine as they draw closer into their destination; a farmhouse that grows closer with every step, it is dark and the stars seek to provide little reprieve as she is caught off-guard as Roy missteps before her, barely stumbling before reclaiming his stance. He sees his breath before his face as he exhales deeply, a nervous chuckle on the end of his tongue.

It's only as they grow closer does he realises that he recognises this place, it is burned out now, only a shred of the out building on the boundary of the land remains in tact where fire has torn through the timber frames of the old house, destroying everything within it. The land is abandoned, forgotten by most with exception to the odd trespasser or passing story of ghostly apparitions that haunt the walls where four lives were claimed in one night. "It was in the newspapers, nearly ten years ago. I remember seeing it on your father's desk, it was the talk of the town for some time, a farmer, his wife and two small children were killed here, some said that the eldest child, his name was Tom — he had seen to the cattle late at night, left a candle burning and gone to bed, candles are surprisingly common on the outskirts of the city, a fire had started, only when the flames were so tall that they could be seen by the nearest residents quarter of a mile away was help sent for, but it was too late. They all perished in the fire. Only an 8 year old farm hand survived." He swallowed thickly, his furrowed brow concealed by the darkness, but not from her, she recognised that tone in his voice of apprehension and regret. "Flames can be cruel."

She didn't speak, she waited for him, allowing the silence to pass as he held her attention firmly, with words of comfort that she did not know how to speak. He pulls a crucifix from his coat pocket, taking it tightly into his hand as he prepares for the worst. Hawkeye has her gun in her grasp, knuckles whitening under the strain of just how tightly she is holding on to it.

"There's a small out house on the edge of the land, we should take a look," he decides as she strains against a yawn that threatens to escape from her, lowering her gun briefly to rub at her arms as gooseflesh run along her skin and a chill runs down her spine. She shudders. She cannot quite place into words, a general feeling of foreboding. It's as though fate is against them as the skies open and rain pours down on them and soon any apprehension is chewed away as the hurtle towards the building, in search of shelter as the rain drops soon add to the resistance of the already thick mud, pulling them in as their footfalls quicken, her gun held back in place.

The door swings open, unlocked, although not in the least inviting as they press on, muddy boots not dirtying the floor already caked with dirt and dust, encased in darkness. He scrunches his nose at the air, he has smelled many things — vampires are hardly known for their strong sense of personal hygiene, where the scent of stale blood fills your nostrils, but this building is putrid and Riza finds herself convinced that she will stumble across a decade old pile of corpses that have disintegrated into nothingness, but as she turns the corner, there is nothing there… despite the relentless stench of death.

"The farm was his last known address," Riza begins. "After the fire, he lost everything, he was only a child. No-one cared enough to know where he had gone, he probably ended up on the streets, possibly working for the Mayor for a non-existent wage."

"Some said that he had been responsible for the fire, reports varied, some claimed the family had been deeply abusive to the child, others said that they had loved him as a third child. The fact of the matter is that no one really knows what happened here or why it happened, it could have as easily been cold blooded murder just as it could have been a tragic accident."

Riza thumbed at the switch of a small torch, illuminating a small area of the room as she began her search, Roy wandering aimlessly to the other side of the room, observing the ceiling. A pile of books was stacked messily, leaning against the wall as she took one from the top of the pile, milling through it in the hopes for a shred of evidence or a clue, but all it seemed to contain were notes of purchase. Dutifully she sifted through the books, flicking each page over and skim reading the contents as Roy shifted dilapidated furniture aside, turning broken tables over to survey for hidden objects, a heavy grunt as he moved an old storage shelf, revealing nothing but cobwebs.

"There's nothing in here," he noted, voice heavy with defeat, looking over to her as continued to rifle through page after page with no particular information of use garnered for her efforts.

"This is all that's left, the last place we _know_ that he lived at, we need to find something or we're just chasing another dead end. Perhaps something happened here — but we need to find out what that something is."

"I'll see if there's anything left of the house, perhaps there's something left that the authorities missed, perhaps it was insignificant to the investigation or it just wasn't seen before now…" He offered trailing off as she nodded her head in agreement.

"Of course, I'll join you as soon as I've finished with these books, there's two left and it's giving me a headache. I've never been a great fan of the literature, not at least since childhood. Father only ever carried books for his studies, I soon lost interest." She complained, earning a soft smile and chuckle in return from him as he placed a hand on her shoulder before heading out into the elements, where the rain had since ceased. He neither had been particularly studious, always raring to dive into practical elements of his apprenticeship training, rather than any theoretical findings to be gleamed from books and old texts with words that made no more sense to him than ancient runes.

Time passed arduously as she continued to read the pages, dimly lit by the torch as the headache only grew, pressing against her temples and filling her ears. Her finger skimmed down the page, looking for names attached to purchases, addresses and titles.

 _Mr. A. R. Hancock, The Shipman Estate._

"The Shipman Estate?" That was the title of the former residence of the Mayor, prior to his ascension to public office, Mr. A. R Hancock must be the head of house, responsible for ordering produce — that perhaps solved the mystery of how the boy had come to know the Mayor, Mr. Shipman's daughter. She tore at the page, placing it into her pocket, the pressure mounting in her forehead as she stood, feeling the breath knocked from her, as though trapped in a tiny confined space the walls seemed to cave in on her and she stumbled.

The ground seemed to swallow her whole as she stood, soon finding herself at her knees, her palm raised to the nape of her neck in an attempt to dull the throbbing pain.

"You shouldn't be here," a voice spoke softly. It sounded almost motherly, with a kind pitch and warmth that enveloped her, pulling her into the darkness that shielded her from the pain, while the pain was stinging warmth, the voice tugged her into gentle coolness like dipping your toes into mild waters at the sea on a hot day.

"Roy?" She called out, turning her head to the direction of her voice, but nothing was there — she was alone.

"Rest now," the voice spoke again from behind her, but this time it set her teeth on edge, made the hairs of her arms stand on edge, filling her with dread and guttural hesitation and fear.

"Roy?" She called out again as the darkness pulled her further down. Soon she was sinking into nothingness as brightness concealed her eyesight.

Roy was on his hands and knees, pulling the earth apart with his fingertips in the search of answers to questions that seemingly had no answer, it seemed as though he had been sitting for an age, confirmed only by the growing light of the rising sun. He turned his head only to see that instead of a rising sun, the outhouse was ablaze and Riza was nowhere to be seen. He didn't hesitate, not even as he called out her name, shouting coming more and more frantically when it earned him no response.

"Riza?! Riza!" The name spilled from his lips over and over again as the muddy land tried to consume his feet, but not quite strong enough to hold him back as he ran to her, the fire growing closer and closer as adrenaline coursed through his veins, strength and stamina in surplus as he rushed to where he had last seen her. In a fluid motion, he wrapped his coat around his arms and head, without stopping to evaluate as he headed into the building that was alight without moment for hesitation. Her name was still at his tongue, the building was only small and it took hardly any time to find her crumpled on the floor where he had left her to study the books further, he dragged her into his arms, pulling her limp form against his body as he tried to pull her to safety. She didn't complain, she didn't make an utterance as he walked into the frigid air of the outside. Once she had broken her ankle and he had carried her, as he had lifted her she had cursed his name, but now she was deathly quiet and that filled him with fear as he rested her on the ground, pulling at her face and pressing his ear against her nose, looking to her chest for breath, only slightly comforted by the sight of shallow breaths. He tenderly placed a hand to her cheek, recoiling slightly to find a sticky, eerily warm substance wetting her hair, a small laceration from some sort of traumatic wound that seeped steadily. Shallow breaths turned to coughing as he lifted her body to rest in his arms as she inhaled the fresh air away from the smoke and flames.

"Shit Riza, why do you have to get yourself into trouble, hey?" He asked, intonation as though he expected words rather than a sickly, weak coughing motion as he rubbed at her spine, guiding her to inhale deeply.

Eyelashes barely fluttered in his direction, she stared straight through him briefly before turning her head to the side only to cough again, throat dry and sore, head still throbbing. His body felt warm, contrasting against the coldness of the elements.

"I'm here, I've got you." A hand pressing to her cheek, leaning in until his nose pressed against her forehead, a small kiss placed in her hair as he watched the building cave in from the corner of his eye, a sigh escaping him. The dreary dampness of the air makes him cold to the bone, but he doesn't take a moment to even consider his actions as he slips his coat from his shoulders to wrap it around her as she slowly returns to consciousness.

"I've got you."


End file.
